


Game of Silence

by mimepowerhour



Series: Waste Lands [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Control, Humiliation, M/M, Mindfuck, Rape, Suicide, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimepowerhour/pseuds/mimepowerhour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a period of low sanity, Wes attempts suicide, bringing Maxwell’s wrath down on him. But they’re all just pieces in the overall game—and Maxwell decides to have a little fun with him. This is a precursor to Wes’ imprisonment, basically. </p><p>(Note: Wes is not a mute.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game of Silence

Maxwell's statue rose grandly from the floor, self-aggrandising and self-satisfied. A long rope trailed from its stone neck, swaying slightly in spite of the still air. Beneath it, the crumpled form of a body lay in shadow, a thin frame whose reds and whites bled into the darkened tile. 

"...pathetic." 

The darkness cut itself apart, slicing itself into deeper and deeper blacks. A dreadful silhouette emerged, barely visible against the writhe and twist of lightless shapes. 

"You thought you could end it? That you were in control of your WRETCHED life?"

Maxwell's face rose out of the pitch, all hooked nose and sallow skin, the hot red tip of his cigar raining ash as the shadows peeled away from him. They did not detach from him so much as he extended from them--the towering apparition of a man, twisted and terrible. 

His victim moved to stand, shaking limbs making it an act more of desperation than reason, but he was immediately seized, arms and legs bound by the sinister darkness--it wrenched him back, pulling him down against the checkered stone. The chill of the floor could be felt through his scalp, his shirt, and his lungs were knocked empty by the shock as a shiver shuddered through his spine.

"Ha." Maxwell leered down into Wes' face, who went still and tense--but though he wanted nothing more than to escape the smoking end of the man's cigar, the bonds of his captor's darkness, the hateful stare of the demon himself, he did not move, paralysed by the fact of Maxwell's very presence, a fearful form of anticipation that held the mime fast as he stared up at him.

"This is _my_ game. And while I am king, it is played by _my_ rules." Maxwell's gloved hand shot out, catching Wes by the jaw. It was strong enough to grind his teeth; Wes shut his eyes tightly, trying to shrink back, to steel himself against the demon's strength, fear and anger giving him some strength. In response, Maxwell shook him painfully, his fingers pressing deeper into the skin and muscle of Wes' painted face.

His voice, however... his voice started to sound slightly different. "I don't like cheaters, pal." 

Wes didn't say anything. He did, however, open his eyes. Just enough. Enough to see.

And be seen. Maxwell was studying him--the hard edge of his calculating anger was not yet gone, but it was tinged with something else, something deeper... something almost contemplative. Or was that appraisal? Pain, sharp and dull and radiating, was making headroads against the ghosts of Wes' lingering insanity, the flicker of shadow and bloom of imagined colour, and the reality of the situation began to creep in more fully. He strained to try and move, but Maxwell didn't seem to notice. 

"I gotta give you credit, you've been pretty good at holding onto that act of yours... I've not heard so much as a peep. Not even when those hounds got you." He chuckled, as though reminiscing, and took the cigar from his mouth before blowing smoke straight into Wes' face, into his eyes and up his nose. Though he'd been a smoker in the not so distant past, Wes coughed, gagging, his aching lungs seared by something terrible; Maxwell tapped his ashes onto the mime's face callously--and pensively, eyes back on that pale, painted face. Wes' silence held--he didn't understand Maxwell's angle, but his silence was all he had; it was his defiance. His sole rebellion.

"Very... professional." A broad, white grin spread across Maxwell's features. "Think you can keep it up, pal?" Wes met Maxwell's gaze, half uncomprehendingly. But only half. A sense of terror bit into him.

"You want out so bad... okay. Sure, I understand. So tell you what... I'm gonna give you a little test. You pass it, I'll give you a free pass. You fail...." He chuckled again, shadows sliding across the wall in a sinister procession. Wes strained against the tight coils holding him, though not the grasp of Maxwell himself--he didn't dare try that--but he was still weak, confused... and it was futile. Maxwell watched him struggle, his face an unreadable mask, and there grew a silence to rival even a mime's. 

"...I'm waiting." 

Wes was starting to lose feeling in his hands, the bonds of the shadows too tight around his arms, and he could feel the gagging reflex of fear in the back of his throat--but he held it in, starting to shake his head. _No--_

And then Maxwell seized him by the throat, swapping hands effortlessly, ripping Wes free of the shadows' bonds.

Suddenly Wes was held up by one hand, the leather shockingly cold against the heat of his skin. The mime's adam's apple was pressed hard against the tight curve at the crux of Maxwell's thumb, the demon's powerful digits gouging into pale flesh and tender muscle. Wes tried to pry Maxwell's leather-gloved hand free, pulling desperately at the man's fingers with his own white-gloved hands, but it was to no avail--the shadows reached up, wrapping around his legs, and began to pull him down, cutting Maxwell's hand further into his windpipe. His dark eyes went wide, and his mouth opened pathetically, choking, gaping for air; his vision hazed, spots and whiteness and pain.

Sweat began to run down from the nap his neck, down along the ridge of his spine.

"I'm losing my patience, mime." Maxwell's grip tightened further, fingers pressing deep into the vulnerable nerves at the back of the neck. Wes opened his mouth again in a silent gasp of agony, a silent cry of supplication or protest, it was impossible to tell--but it was still just that. Silence. Shock, pain, fear. Silence. His mouth closed, then opened again, still silent; a futile plea for air, for release, for freedom--

He couldn't--

_The rough braid of rope scraped the skin raw at the base of his jaw as he hung; the agonising burn of hypoxia as every cell, every muscle, every organ in his body screamed for air--but gripped by the impending promise of death--_

The seconds ticked by, and Wes' struggles grew poorer; his hands reached numbly for Maxwell's arms, grabbing the striped sleeves in a feeble attempt to free himself. Then blackness took over inside as well as out, and they too gave way. Maxwell held him another two seconds, three, four... then dropped him. 

The mime hit the floor with a heavy sound of fabric and dead weight, the impact knocking the remaining air from his lungs. Maxwell brushed his sleeves off, adjusting his gloves silently as he stared down at the heaving heap of cloth and spent limbs.

But not dead. Maxwell didn't want him dead. Not that it would matter. But no...

Maxwell bent down, putting his hand on the narrow shoulder of the littler man.

"Hey, pal." His voice was mild now, smooth and calm. "C'mon. Get up." He shook Wes, gently--and when that earned him only a wheezing cough, picked up his hand and placed it atop the mime's dishevelled hair. Wes was unable to react, barely conscious as he was, too wracked for air to struggle or even stiffen under Maxwell's touch, but the hand did not hurt him, did not grab a fistful of hair or move down to grip the base of Wes' vulnerable neck once more. Bruises had begun to bloom where Maxwell's fingers had pressed too hard into the flesh. Now, however, Maxwell offered a simple stroke along the top of Wes' head, an almost tender touch. 

"Up and at'em." Wes laboured to take in air and managed a slow, hissing, ragged breath, chest rising painfully. His throat ached, his lungs burned--his body, deprived of oxygen twice in the span of a mere hour, was unwilling to try for it again. Not yet. 

Maxwell wasn't interested in waiting, however--he took his hand back and planted it back on Wes' shoulder, this time rolling the smaller man over onto his back. 

And there he got a surprise. For a moment, Maxwell paused. Then the light of understanding gleamed.

Wes' eyes opened slowly, a vertigo of perception cradling him as the world pitched and spiralled out of space and time, colour and sound joining together and rolling in and out like waves--it was a delirium and a desperation, a delight and devastation. The world swam again, shapes indistinct, colours bright and oversaturated and flat. He could see Maxwell laughing, but it seemed disconnected, unreal, and he was too confused to comprehend the physical sensation of Maxwell's touch, or its location.

Not until Maxwell's hand cupped closer, pressing in, just a bit, and then he did feel it, a stimulus he could not lose, the world constricting as he gasped; Maxwell's mocking laughter rolled over him with the waves.

He didn't understand; he was too confused, too out of his head to really grasp what was going on--Maxwell's laughter unsettled him, but he did not immediately recognise its cause. He had enough sense to feel shame, somehow--shame and anger, but it took the rough jerking of Maxwell's hand, pressing down his hardened cock against his skin for the horror to dawn on him.

_No. No, no--_

Wes pushed him away, desperation and panic on his features, but Maxwell wasn't interested in Wes' protests. With a quick motion of his fingers, he undid the button to Wes pants and shoved his hand inside, past his underwear, where the now-warm leather of his glove closed around Wes' length. The shadows held him down as the mime jerked--then arched as Maxwell's fingers wrapped around him, a half-gasp of shock and something else, something he desperately didn't want--didn't want to _admit_ \--but Maxwell smiled, a thin, long sickly grin that made fear and nausea coil in the mime's stomach--even as his breath came short from what he was trying to avoid. 

"No objections? Heh. No, of course not."

Maxwell was no expert, but he was certainly close enough--close enough for this, at the very least. He held his cigar tight between his teeth as he began to tease Wes--squeezing here, petting there--and he stroked the mime's length like a cat, the smooth leather of his gloved hands driving Wes' eyes shut as Maxwell's other hand began to move up, slipping under the red and black striped shirt to slide over Wes' stomach, feeling the ribs. They were not prominent, but were quite present nonetheless, and he spread his fingers, letting his fingertips run along the curves. Then, with his other hand, he moved to Wes' balls and squeezed--hard. Wes arched up in pain, shocked, a strangled gasp escaping him as stars burst behind his eyes. He struggled to rise, but the shadows kept him down. Maxwell laughed. He did not relent, however, and did not let go--not immediately, not for several seconds, not until Wes' silent scream convinced him there would be no sound from this one. 

He released the mime for a moment and paused to take the cigar from his mouth. He blew smoke over the reeling man, watching the pain in his face with an air of detachment. Then he put the cigar back between his teeth and went back to work, tenderly touching the base of Wes' shaft and letting his fingers trail gently over the hot, sensitive skin; the delicacy of his touch, so calculated, was in such stark contrast to the agony Wes had just experienced that he did not feel it at first. As the pain ebbed slightly, however, other sensation began to return--just in time for Maxwell's other hand to reach his chest, and then his throat. Wes tensed, stiffening instinctively, but this time Maxwell did not wrap his fingers around his throat or jaw. Instead, the sleek leather slid over Wes' bruised skin, and Maxwell clucked a little, feeling the heat even through his gloves. 

Wes remained rigid under Maxwell's touch, and he strained against the shadows, which crept up over his torso as Maxwell's deft hands continued working in that other way, the way that did not cause pain but which was more terrible than any agony, more horrifying and terrifying than any hallucination, and he was sure he was seeing hallucinations at the moment but could not define them, could not frame any reality over the _oh God_ \--

Wes arched again, higher this time, a shuddering gasp as Maxwell ran one finger along the underside of his shaft, and the shadows wrapped tighter, binding him further. Then a thin trickle of ash fell from the cigar onto Wes' face and the mime jerked, distressed, distracting Maxwell for just a moment--and then more than a moment as he realised the source of Wes' sudden movement. He smiled--a thin, cruel smile.

"I see. We're dealing with a showman here, aren't we?" He released Wes' cock, slipping his other hand out from under the mime's shirt to bring them up by Wes' face, cupping him by the sides of his jaw. "A real professional." Wes' fear showed in his eyes, in the twist of his mouth, in the way he opened it silently, as though to beg--but no sound came out, and Maxwell didn't wait for it. "You even take the time to doll yourself up..."

Maxwell ground his thumbs into Wes' face, which creased in pain and no small amount of despair as he struggled against the iron grip, but Maxwell just pressed harder, his own face twisting viciously, an ugly expression as he destroyed the fine lines on Wes' face, red into white into black, smearing the makeup into a greasy mess, gritty from fallen ashes. He dragged the paint into Wes' eyes, and Wes bucked, or tried to, as Maxwell made one final swipe before releasing him roughly, wiping his gloves clean on the mime's shirt and pants.

In doing so, he discovered that Wes' erection had not yet flagged.

"Well. Look at this." He swept his hand back, stroking the underside of Wes' length again, then removed his cigar to set it aside, just briefly. "You _like_ it rough, huh pal?" He reached up to grab Wes' chin again, grinning broadly as the mime writhed in misery--then he leaned in, pressing his lips against the other man's hard, his tongue pushing in forcefully, his breath full of smoke and darkness.

Wes bit him. 

Maxwell jerked back in a rage and he slammed Wes' head back to the ground; it was a distance of a few inches, sparing Wes from unconsciousness but not pain as Maxwell spat blood, fisting his fingers in the mime's hair. 

"You're gonna regret that, pal."

Wes was given less than a second to react before the shadows hefted him up, roughly, Maxwell's own hand releasing him briefly before he was twisted around; he could not see what was happening, but then, an agonising wait of seconds later, he was pressed down hard against the floor, facedown--Maxwell's hand stripped him of his pants and undergarments, tearing them from his body with abrupt violence; then Maxwell went silent again, though he could hear the man's breathing, loud and heavy. Finally a hand--was it a hand?--grabbed Wes by the leg and pushed, pulling his legs apart until suddenly he felt Maxwell's weight on his back, his voice just behind him. 

"Now take a deep breath.” 

It came all at once--the heat, the girth, the _pain_ ; he was not stretched so much as forced open, forced _into_ , and the shadows--hands and tentacles--held him in place so that Maxwell could have his way. He could not breathe, could not move; the agony was overwhelming--an excruciating, incomprehensible nightmare. Maxwell moaned once, briefly, as he entered, and Wes could hardly prevent a moan himself--a different moan, but it died as it left his lungs, coming out only as a rough, gutteral wheeze of anguish--or perhaps a sob of despair.

He was filled with Maxwell, heat and flesh and--

Maxwell began to move. And it was even worse. By now the capacity for speech was lost to him for entirely different reasons, and as Maxwell moved out and in, the sensation was crushing, destroying in a way he could not measure--oh, it hurt, it hurt beyond words, jagged and wrenching and _oh God, oh God ça fait mal, il faisait tellement mal_ \--but it was something else, too. Something alien, horrible--incomprehensible to him, to his body; then, suddenly--just briefly, there was something else. It was an abrupt, indescribable something--something that made his breath catch, a sudden, unexpected jolt of something almost wonderful. Almost good. 

Then it was gone, replaced by the pain--and back again, a second thrill through his anguished nerves.

The haze of smoke from Maxwell's cigar, the cold touch of the shadows embracing him--a chill that cut straight into his soul--and Maxwell, hot and thick, his weight on Wes' body, his presence _inside_ him, a desperate combination of pain and need--pain and _pleasure_ , a phantasmagorically heady roil of sensation that was beyond Wes' ability to grasp now; he could only half lie, half brace against the floor as Maxwell thrust into him, again and again. 

Wes pressed his forehead against the ground, seeking the cool, the firm, the concrete--but the heat of his face and the exertion of pain and pleasure soon robbed the checkered floor of its relief, its palliative effect fading rapidly as its chill was absorbed and replaced with a moist warmth, and he lifted his head again, his mouth opening as he gasped and arched.

Maxwell pushed him down hard towards the floor, his thrusts rougher, stronger--faster. Then _pain_ \--hot, searing, screaming pain as Maxwell came, as he jammed his cigar into the nape of Wes' neck, burning him, snuffing it against the bruised hot flesh, pulling out with perfect timing to spill his filth all over the mime's back. 

Wes did not realise it immediately, but he was released--wet, sticky, soiled--but released. The shadows removed their fingers and tendrils from his body, Maxwell's hands were nowhere to be found. He collapsed, shaking, desperate for relief, for for even the slightest bit of respite from pain and terror and humiliation--

Maxwell exhaled, wiping himself off--he took a moment to smear that, too, on Wes' back before he stood, taking the time to dress himself. Shadows reached up from his feet to help as he buckled his pants and shrugged his coat back on, ignoring the mime for a moment--at least until he was done.

"Incredible." Maxwell's voice jerked him, perhaps cruelly, into reality, and Wes shifted, turning his head just enough to stare at him with eyes marked by terror.

"All of that, and not a peep." Wes' ragged, miserable breathing was the only sound, and the corners Maxwell's mouth turned down--only to be replaced by a brief, sickly smile. 

"Well, I am a... heh, a man of my word." He knelt, leaning down to murmur right in the mime's ear.

"But the show must go on."

With that, he straightened up, a snap of his fingers the last sound Wes heard before the shadows rose, engulfing him--he had no time to react, only one arm reaching out of their dark embrace before he was gone, dragged down through the floor and out of Maxwell's sight. 

Good riddance.

The next time Wes woke, he was surrounded by clockwork. Trapped, upright, whole--and soaked to the bone. The rain came down hard, constantly; he could not move, could not rest. He was safe--even as night came, and night went, he was safe--miraculously, magically protected from the prowling, deadly darkness. From hunger. From death. 

He had his 'free pass.' 

And for the price of his silence, he would probably never be free again.

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a prologue. Prologue to what? You'll see.
> 
> This was my first stab at Don't Starve fic. Maxwell doesn't strike me as the type to be tolerant of the other game pieces trying to kill themselves, but I'm sure it was inevitable someone try it eventually. Wes' low sanity and the cryptic 'he displeased me' statement from Maxwell when you inspect trapped Wes was definitely a big part of the inspiration here. It's entirely possible Maxwell just doesn't like mimes and/or that he was disgusted with Wes for being so frail, but I tend to figure it'd take something larger than that to make him go to all the effort of imprisoning him like that. I mean, he could really just ignore Wes and leave him to die over and over. You know, like everyone else.
> 
> Also, the idea that Wes has been mute for his entire life seems to go unquestioned in this fandom, but it's not strictly canon and I don't like the way people handle that, so I wanted to write something where he wasn't.


End file.
